Shut Up and Sleep
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock has a knack for hurting himself, although not entirely on purpose. John is a doctor, and it's a good thing he's there. Doctor!John.


**Shut Up and Sleep**

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock's voice was tight, his eyebrows furrowed together just the slightest amount, the smallest frown on his face.

"You're in pain, Sherlock."

"I'm fine."

The thing that scared John was that Sherlock didn't argue. "Let me just check you out, please. It'd make me feel better."

"Of course it would; you worry needlessly."

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock. Sit down."

Sherlock sank heavily onto the couch, raising his fingers gingerly to press against the massive bump on his forehead.

"Don't touch that, Sherlock! Leave it alone!"

"It's rather impressive."

"You ran into a two by four, Sherlock, of course you've got a big bump." John rummaged through the fridge and, for a lack of an ice pack or frozen ice in general, John tossed a bag of frozen peas to Sherlock. "Here."

"What is this rubbish?"

"Ice, for your head."

"It's frozen vegetables, not ice."

"Close enough," John said, taking the stairs two at a time to his room. He returned back to the living room, finding Sherlock passing the bag of frozen peas back and forth between his hands. "You're supposed to put it on your head," John muttered, sitting next to Sherlock.

"I might shortly."

"Great," John muttered half sarcastically, trying to take the worried edge out of his voice. He had watched Sherlock take off after the criminal before he had followed unthinkingly. He had also been the first to notice the two by four, surprisingly, and had barely had the time to shout out a warning before Sherlock had careened right into it.

Panic had overtaken the doctor as Sherlock's head cracked audibly, as he went thumping backwards onto the straw-covered floor of the barn. By far past the idea of chasing a criminal, John had come to a scrambling stop next to the detective, crashing onto his knees.

There had been a few moments of tense panic, of confusion, although, thankfully, no blood. John didn't know how Sherlock had managed to avoid that.

"Look at me," John instructed, pulling out the pinpoint light he kept in the first aid. Sherlock's silver-tinged eyes locked on him, not deviating as John flashed the light in them. "Looks good," he murmured, placing the light back into the kit.

Sherlock looked away again, blinking against, presumably, the afterimages of the light flash. "I told you."

"No, I'm not done," John interjected, gripping Sherlock's wrist when he tried to stand. "Take off your coat."

Sherlock scowled, pulling his arm away. "I'd love to, John, if you'd stop pestering me."

"I'm just trying to help, Sherlock," John replied, waiting for Sherlock to shed his coat before he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's upper arm. He drew his stethoscope from the kit, placing the earpieces into his ears. "It would really help if you stopped playing with the peas!" he added irritably, pulling the bag from his friends fingers before pressing the stethoscope against the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"Sphygmomanometers have always intrigued me," Sherlock put in, fingers reaching for the cuff. John caught his fingers and held them tight, transferring a half-hearted glare to the detective.

When the blood pressure reading came back, nearing perfect, as it were, John removed the equipment and let go of Sherlock's hand. "Yes, you probably only liked them because you are probably one of the only people who can pronounce the word correctly."

Sherlock hummed a bit in response.

"Okay, that looks good. Looks all fine..." He picked up the bag of peas, which was thawing slowly, pressing it against Sherlock's head. The latter flinched slightly and John readjusted his pressure until Sherlock took over with holding the bag. "What day is it?"

"Oh, you've already done this."

"That's okay, I'm doing it again."

Sherlock sighed heavily, sinking a bit lower onto the couch. "It's Monday. We were in a barn just outside of Brixton, chasing the 'Jack-in-the-Box' killer under request by Detective Inspector Lestrade. Is that thorough enough for you, or shall I continue by telling you of the cabbie's recent affair in the backseat of the cab that we rode in?"

John frowned slightly at the thought of the latter thought, but quickly brushed it aside. "Yeah, that's good. You're fully aware. Now for functioning." Sherlock let out a breath that said _oh, God_, but John ignored him. "Hands out."

"I'm holding a bag of peas, John."

"Drop the veggies. Hands out."

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't argue, just dropped the sweating bag of peas onto his pants, holding his hands out in front of him.

"Out to the side," John instructed. Sherlock did as told. "Okay. You can put the compress back to your head. Look at my finger." He held up one finger.

"You're holding up one."

"Great, you can still count," John replied somewhat sarcastically. He was delving deep into sarcasm to hide the fear that was slowly diminishing. "Follow my finger." He moved it from side to side, up and down. Sherlock's eyes followed every movement flawlessly.

"Well, as far as I can tell, you're fine. I would make you go to A&E, although I don't think you will." A snort from his companion accompanied this thought. "Just take it easy. Lay back, keep your head propped up, keep the ice on it. No strenuous movements. No running after criminals; actually, you're on house arrest for the next twenty-four hours at least."

"John! Jack-in-the-Box is still out there, no thanks to you!"

"I was more concerned with your physical and mental health."

"My mental health is superior."

"Especially physical, then. I thought you were out for sure," John retorted as he stood, watching the consulting detective. "I heard your head _hit_. It wasn't a pleasant sound."

"I imagine not. I don't recall the crack. I was overwhelmed."

"I would think so! It had to hurt."

"I wasn't incapacitated by pain, I was incapacitated by the fact that Jack was getting away!"

John rolled his eyes, pacing away from Sherlock as he put his medical equipment away. "Of course, Sherlock. Now, just shut up and rest."

"I don't want to sleep; I want to think."

"No, don't sleep, just rest. Stare at the ceiling and do... whatever it is you do," John muttered, glancing back at the detective. "You want paracetamol?"

"No," Sherlock responded curtly, draping the bag of peas over his forehead. "Leave me to my misery."

"Right... I'll be right upstairs if you need me," John muttered, shaking his head slightly before he headed back upstairs.

Sherlock was a danger to everyone around him, including himself. But, John could handle it. Someone had to stick with him, didn't they? And, after all, John was _the_ one and only consulting doctor. It only made sense, in the long run.

* * *

**And this is pretty much what happened to me when I hit the ER today, down to the injury and the treatment! (I would be the one to write my experience in the way of _Sherlock_...) Of course, I didn't smash my head on a two by four... but I did have a massive, which is smaller now, bump. Headache. Pounding headache. Yes, let me quote Sherlock here: "Leave me to my misery" :P**

**Your reviews are medicine and fuel to the fire for writing! Thanks so much!**


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